


Wetlands

by blusher91



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blusher91/pseuds/blusher91
Summary: Carver stupidly forgets to take his medicine and goes into heat. Things get worse when his least favourite Tevinter mage gets involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit self-indulgent lol but I'm rather fond of this pairing.

At first, Carver thought the unyielding headache was from stress (or irritation). He and his sister had not parted on good terms ( _how fucking surprising_ ), so it wouldn’t have surprised him if the dull, unrelenting ache was a direct result of her. When it wasn’t gone after two full days, he grudgingly took himself to the infirmary.

Clutching his forehead, he trudged across Skyhold’s courtyard. It was muddy from the recent rain and full of the usual suspects. Mages, traders, soldiers and various chancers hoping to ride on the Inquisition’s coattails. Carver barged past a group of dubious looking men in knock-off Grey Warden armour and spilled through the infirmary.

“Excuse me?”

A woman in a worn grey robe turned to glance at him and then looked back down at the bandages she was winding around the arm of a man lying unconscious on a pallet. “What do you need?”

“I was hoping you’d have some sort of… potion I can take to get rid of this headache I have.” Carver knew he sounded foolish, but he was desperate. The pain felt like it was getting worse and he was sure it was beginning to spread to his stomach and legs.

The medic finished her work and stood up, fixing him with a considering look. “We do have pain-relieving potions, but they’re saved for the most severe injuries. Getting more of them is almost impossible.”

Carver slumped his shoulders. Of course, he should have known that would be the case. They were in the middle of the mountains, sandwiched between one country deep in civil war and the other still recovering from the carnage the renegade mages had caused. Potions weren’t easy to come by.

He jumped as the medic approached him suddenly and put her hand to his forehead. Her skin felt extremely cold against his burning forehead. She moved her hand and clasped his wrist to take his pulse. Then she stepped back, brow furrowed.

“I think I just picked something up while I was out in the field,” Carver said, feeling awkward. He didn’t want her to think he was some fragile flower, unable to deal with a persistent headache when people where regularly coming in with limbs almost torn off. “I’m sure it—”

“When was the last time you had your heat?”

Carver stared at her, feeling his mouth go slack. “What?”

The woman’s expression softened. “You’re an omega, yes? I think you’re going through your pre-heat. The heat itself could come as soon as tomorrow I should think.”

Carver shook his head, taking a step back from her. “No… No. That isn’t possible. I’m on the suppression thing!” He could hear the note of hysteria coming into his voice.

The medic spoke in a steady, almost soothing tone. “When was the last time you took your dosage? Being around so many other omegas and alphas could have triggered your heat early. It’s unusual when you’re supressing, but it can happen.”

Somehow her understanding and lack of judgement made Carver feel even worse. He didn’t want to be understood. He wanted something to stop it.

“It’s only been…” Carver shook his head, trying to get his thoughts into order. Trying to think _._ The headache made it so difficult. “Fuck!”

Weeks. It had been weeks.

“Do you have any suppressants left?” the medic asked gently.

Carver just shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to form the word. His stomach twisted in horror.

The medic patted his arm kindly. “Now, dear. Don’t upset yourself. It’ll only makes things worse.”

Carver wanted to snap back that he wasn’t upset, that he did not get “upset”. But he couldn’t find the words. His head was throbbing. His stomach hurt. He just wanted to lay down.

It was his sister’s fault. She had left him there. He hadn’t wanted to stay. He had wanted to go to Weisshaupt with her. If she had just listened to him, for once in her _bloody life_ , he would be in the middle of nowhere right now where it didn’t matter if he went into heat. He could have just found a cave and rode it out.

“Maker,” he hissed, pressing a hand to his forehead. His thoughts were barely making sense. He looked up quickly, an idea coming to him. “But they would have suppressants here, right? There are omegas here.”

The medic shook her head with what looked like genuine regret. “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t spare any. They’re strictly rationed for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency!” Carver spluttered.

The medic sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “My dear, we have omega soldiers and scouts going deep into enemy territory where an uncontrolled heat is used quite literally against them as a weapon of war.” Her voice was gentle, but undeniably firm. “We cannot spare any.”

For one irrational moment, Carver didn’t care. He didn’t care if they were caught, put into danger because of him. But less than a second later, the thought had passed. He did care. He had been a soldier. He was a templar. He couldn’t take what was meant for those in the line of fire. He felt a pang of shame for even considering it.

“You’ll just have to stay in your quarters until the heat has passed.” The medic’s voice cut through his thoughts. “It’ll be uncomfortable, but I’m afraid it’s the best we can do.”

Carver nodded tiredly. It wasn’t like he had any other option. He sighed a sigh that felt like it went right down to his very bones.

It had been years since he had gone through a heat. From the age of eighteen, he’d been on suppressants, with only a couple of accidental heats in between. It was difficult to conjure up the memory of the exact sensation of going through an unaided heat. But he knew it didn’t feel good. He certainly recalled that it involved a lot of pain, crying and irrational thoughts of begging the nearest alpha to put him out of his misery. He’d resisted. With difficulty. And a lot of help from his parents. And of course, his sister.

His lips thinned, and he pressed his face into his palm. He didn’t want to think about her right now. It was the very last thing he wanted to think about. As though him being an omega and she and their father being alphas wasn’t enough of an albatross around his neck. A thorn so deep in his side it was almost septic.

“Go back to your room and I’ll make sure someone brings you something to eat later.” The medic coaxed him back towards the infirmary door. Carver let himself be ushered out. “I’ll make sure the Commander knows you won’t be available for duty for a few days.”

Carver walked back to his room in a daze. He hardly had any chagrin left to spare on the thought of the man who had once been the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall finding out about his condition. And his idiotic mistake. It’d probably just confirm Cullen’s suspicions that he was just the less capable Hawke. Not even competent enough to keep himself stocked up on vitally important medicine.

His head was still hurting, and his stomach and legs had both developed a dull, persistent ache. He knew that soon the aches and pains would pass, and other symptoms would begin. Symptoms that made him feel everything he tried so hard to get away from. Weak. Out of control. _Dependant._

He was so lost in his own self-pitying thoughts that he almost walked into someone.

“Sorry,” he said dazedly, looking up.

 _Andraste’s tits_. Of course, it had to be him. The fucking Tevinter.

“No harm done,” Dorian said, with what he obviously thought was a charming smile.

Carver felt his lip curl in irritation. His natural aversion to mages and Tevinters and men who exuded insufferable amounts of self-confidence and smugness, had an extra, infuriating layer on it in Dorian’s case, because… He inwardly groaned. Well. Because of the fact that he found him so _fucking attractive._

Carver scoffed and brushed past him. He could practically feel the man smirking after him. Looking him over. Checking out his—

Carver gave himself a shake. That was the last thing he needed to be thinking about.

He just wanted to hide under the covers of his bed and pretend he didn’t exist for the next few days.


	2. Chapter 2

“Looks like I win again, Sparkler.”

Dorian sat back in his chair and sighed. “Go on then, you wretched dwarf. Take my last sovereign.” He waved a hand dismissively at the pile of chips on the table.

Varric chuckled unrepentantly and dragged his winnings towards him. “Just be glad I’m not as ruthless as Josephine.”

Dorian thought of Cullen and smirked. “I don’t know. I can appreciate ruthlessness sometimes.”

Varric snorted. “You’re still sweet on Curly?” He clicked his tongue. “Setting yourself up for a fall, Sparkler.”

Dorian scoffed. “ _Sweet_? Me? Commander Cullen and I are strictly on flirting terms.” He examined his fingernails. “Besides, he only has eyes for Trevelyan. And that would be sweet, if it wasn’t so nauseating.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Well, given the way you’ve been eyeing up Hawke’s brother, it’s probably for the best.”

Dorian opened his mouth and then closed it. It’d be stupid to deny it. Subtlety wasn’t something he had ever put much stock in. When he liked looking at something, he looked at it. Until he was told to stop or punched in the face. And he very, _very_ much liked looking at Carver Hawke.

“I’m no expert, but it would seem to me that you have a type,” Varric quipped.

 “Mm? Dour, scowling templars with no sense of humour?” Dorian replied offhandedly.

Varric fixed him with an arch look. “Hey, they’re not my cup of tea, Sparkler. Just an observation.”

Flippancy aside, Carver Hawke wasn’t really much like Cullen. He gave off a distinct aura of petulance, like a scolded child. His handsomeness was always offset by a scowl and his body was tense and uneasy, too ready to fight. Dorian covered his mouth to hide what could have looked like a thoroughly dopey smile. But _what_ a body. In that regard, he and Cullen were more than equally matched.

Reluctantly bringing his thoughts back to the present, Dorian yawned and stretched. “I think I’ve lost enough money for one night.”

Varric glanced up from his pile of chips. “Tavern?”

“I think I’ll retire to my boudoir actually. I have a pile of letters I need to get to.” He rolled his eyes as he got to his feet. “Tevinter’s bureaucracy will not be denied. Not even here.”

Varric laughed bitterly. “That sounds familiar,” he muttered.

Dorian left him and wandered towards his room. It would have been somewhat eerie walking Skyhold’s darkened cloisters and ramparts at night if it hadn’t been for the guards. The air was bitingly cold, and the sky dazzlingly overrun with stars. More stars than he’d ever seen in a city. He would never say it aloud, but it was one thing that perhaps he could appreciate about not being in Minrathous.

He reached his quarters and glanced along the corridor to the door that he knew belonged to Carver’s room. He’d seen him come and go a few times since his sister had left for Weisshaupt. Always with a face that looked like a brewing storm.

Dorian was more than aware that there was tension between the siblings. Though “tension” did suggest it was on both sides, when in reality he suspected that most of the bitterness was on Carver’s. And being left behind in Skyhold certainly wouldn’t help. Though Hawke must have had her reasons. She was hardly a silly woman.

Dorian train of thought was shattered, and he froze where he was, one hand still poised on the doorknob. Was that a… _moan_? He stared blankly ahead, straining his ears to try and hear it again. There was the familiar trilling whistle of wind from the mountains and the distant chatter and music from the tavern. He couldn’t make out anything else.

He shook his head at himself and was about to go inside when he heard the sound again. He whipped his head around. He knew a moan when he heard one. He’d lived in Minrathous for pity’s sake. He stared along the corridor to where it had come from.

“Maker…” he breathed. It had come from Carver’s room.

He stood motionless, trying to decide what to do. What he _should_ have done was go straight into his own room, shut the door and pretended he’d never heard it. But he barely ever did what he should have. He probably wouldn’t be part of the Inquisition if he did.

He walked up the corridor to Carver’s door. His boots crunched quietly on the gritty stone. His heart was beating with a bit more force in his chest than usual.

As soon as he was close to Carver’s room, he was hit with it. He reeled back a step like he’d been struck. Oh, _fuck_. That smell. It’d been a long time since he’d experienced that. The unadulterated, unrestrained scent of an omega in heat. _Too long_ , snarked the alpha in him.

His mind felt like it was undulating between racing wildly and standing still in total disbelief. _Carver Hawke was an omega_. It was almost unbearably perfect. And also, suddenly totally obvious. He knew there must have been a reason he was so drawn to him, so fascinated by his Adonic body. Beyond the obvious of course. One hardly needed to be an alpha to appreciate a body like Carver’s. Or a face for that matter. But it certainly added a layer of rabid infatuation to his appreciation.

The scent was already going straight to his head. And other places. The hairs on his arms were standing on end, like there was electricity in the air. His head began to pound with a reverberating need. He didn’t know what it was like to take lyrium, but he had always imagined it felt something like inhaling an omega’s heat scent as an alpha. It rushed through his veins like a spell, hot and frenzied.

It was impossible to think straight with it in the air. Going back to his room seemed like not just an impossible, but thoroughly destressing prospect. He had to get closer to Carver. If he was rebuffed, he’d leave. He’d been around unrestrained omegas before. Minrathous was full of them, given the number of Magisters who wouldn’t spare money on suppressants for their slaves. He absolutely had the ability to walk away, painful as it might be.

“Who are you trying to convince?” he mumbled to himself, one hand pressed against Carver’s door as though to steady himself.

He heard a strangled gasp from inside Carver’s room and realised he must have said that a bit louder than he’d intended. “Maker!” Carver’s voice was strangled.

Dorian felt his eyes narrow and mind go blank with a familiar and almost animal urge. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door opened with a low, protesting growl. The cascading scent of sweet, unfettered, uncontrolled omega slick hit him like flashfire.

He staggered back half a step, almost overwhelmed by the unbelievable _intensity_ of it. When was the last time Carver had gone into heat? How long had he been controlling and supressing this? It must have been months. Years. The poor man must have been in _agony_.

Dorian stepped inside, and his eyes settled on the bed. Fucking. _Maker._

Carver’s head was thrown back against the pillows and his legs were spread open. He was shirtless, his stomach muscles flexing and spasming. There was a dark, sodden stain around the crotch of his breeches, extending down to almost his knees. The ridges of his body were slick, almost drenched with perspiration. His hands were balled up into fists in the blankets next to him.

He jerked upright at the sound of Dorian entering, eyes meeting his with visible panic. They were dilated with lust.

“Fuck… off, mage,” he hissed.

The demand was at odds with the way his body reacted to Dorian’s presence. He spread his legs open and rocked his hips up. His back arched sharply, pushing his pelvis up.

Dorian closed the door behind him. His senses and instincts had taken over and the first concern in his mind was to protect Carver from any other alpha scenting him out. Even an alpha who was suppressing his heat would have a difficult time resisting Carver when he was like this. And Dorian didn’t trust himself not to react slightly insanely if another alpha tried to interfere now.

Carver moaned. His body was racked with a spam of what must have been pain. He cried out, his hands tightening rigidly on the covers.

Dorian took a step towards him. It felt like his veins were on fire. Resisting the hunger and urge to possess and protect his— No. Carver was not “his” omega. Somewhere in his lust-fogged brain he knew that. Even as his body keened to pleasure and satisfy the helpless man in front of him.

“Carver, if you want me to go, say it.” His voice was a possessive growl. But he hadn’t taken complete leave of his senses (yet). If Carver told him to go, he would. He wasn’t some barbarian who took omegas against their will… Yet. Give it a few minutes and he might be there.

Carver closed his eyes, a look of anguish on his face. He thrust his body up again. He was even wetter than he had been before. He must have been absolutely gushing with slick in response to Dorian’s presence.

After one torturous minute of silence and standing in the thick, heady fumes of Carver’s heat, Dorian forced himself (though it felt more like he was tearing a limb off himself) to turn away. He had to go. If Carver didn’t want him, he had to go. As miserable and excruciating as the prospect seemed.

He willed his uncooperative limbs to move.

“No.” Carver’s voice was raw. “Don’t go. Please… I can’t—” He cried out in pain and Dorian turned back to him sharply. “Please! It hurts.”

Dorian felt like he teleported rather than moved to Carver’s side. He leant down next him and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Hush. Hush now. I’m going to make it feel better.”

Carver met his eyes. There was still a shard of angry defiance in them, but it was rapidly swallowed by desperation. He closed them and nodded. “Please.” The word was barely more than a whisper.

That was all the encouragement Dorian needed.


	3. Chapter 3

When the headache stopped, the hot flashes began. At first, Carver had defied the medic’s advice to stay in his quarters. The idea that he had to quarantine himself was infuriating. The thought that he was going into heat _at all_ was devastating. The prospect brought up bad, unwelcome feelings and he couldn’t not feel them.

By the afternoon of the next day, the heat and sweating was becoming too much. And he knew he was beginning to give off his scent, because he saw people reacting to it. Heads turning around curiously, cautious or even predatory, eyes sharp. Trying to work out where it was coming from, if they had just imagined it. And Carver could smell the answering scent of other omegas, reacting to him sympathetically. And alphas. That was far more unnerving.

His bravado faltered and the idea of going into sudden, full-blown heat in the middle of Skyhold’s courtyard was both horrifying and, shamefully, exciting. He retreated to his room and sat on his bed, staring out of the window and waiting. Waiting for the inevitable snap. When his brain would exit stage left and his pathetic body take over.

He never felt weak when he was in his right mind. He felt incapable, sure. And useless occasionally. But never weak. He’d honed his body into a powerful weapon, an extension of his sword. Little good it did him when he was maddened with hormones though.

A stupid, hopeful part of him wondered if maybe he could just ignore his heat. Or will it not to come. His body felt hot and damp. He certainly had a temperature and uncomfortable pulses of intense heat and dizziness occasionally passed through him. But he thought that if he just steeled himself, used all of that templar training about resisting pain and having self-discipline, that maybe… Maybe he could just force himself not to react to his omega biology.

But of course, even templars acknowledged that such things could not be denied. All recruits had been advised to be aware of their cycles, diligent about taking suppressants, and to never, ever allow themselves to be in a vulnerable situation with a mage. Be they omega or alpha. It was just another reality to be factored into their training and duties.

And that same reality hit with unrepentant force the next morning. Carver awoke before dawn in more pain than he had felt for a long time. His limbs were on fire, especially his legs, which were throbbing in agony. He could feel that he was already wet and moving caused another uncomfortable surge of slick to leak out of him.

He’d had to accept, with more than a bit of disappointment, that it was not possible to just ignore a heat and hope it wouldn’t come. More than part of him had known that.

He’d succumbed to the depressing realisation that he would just have to bear it until it passed. The medic had sent over a draught the day before with a note attached to it that stated it would help ease some of the pain. Carver had imperiously put it to one side, deciding at the time that he wouldn’t need it.

But oh, did he need it.

He’d given in to the insistent pain within an hour and reached for the stoppered flask. He resisted the urge to drink the whole thing (with difficulty) and instead swallowed about a quarter of it. It didn’t completely eclipse the pain. But it took the edge off.

By the afternoon, the rest was gone.

Unfortunately, the thing the draught could nothing for was the steadily intensifying throb he felt between his buttocks. His hole had grown loose on its own accord, preparing and yearning for something to fill it that wasn’t coming. The slick came in waves and every wave also brought with it an almost hysterical desire to have something inside him.

“ _Fucking Maker_.”

He groaned aloud and twisted against his sodden bedcovers. The draught had worn off an hour or so again. But he couldn’t feel the pain even if it had returned. His whole world and mind now revolved around one part of his body and every quiver, shudder and spasm. He felt like he was yawning wide open. It was like an open wound.

His eyes fell on his sword in the corner. The pommel was rounded and broad. His cock throbbed at the thought. He had to give himself a vigorous shake to force the notion out of his head.

“You bloody idiot,” he choked aloud. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

The damage he could do to himself, not to mention the danger involved in using a weapon for such a thing, was almost eclipsed in the fog of his need. He screwed up his eyes and moaned aloud. Another wave of wetness had oozed out of him as he’d been pondering the sensation of pushing his own sword inside of him. He moaned louder.

The sound of his door opening sent a shock of panic through him. He jerked upright against his pillows, ready to throw something at them if they took another step towards him.

No. Andraste’s tits, no. _No._ Not him.

“Fuck off, mage!” he spat.

The venom in his voice was totally undermined by the fact that a veritable cascade of slick had just gushed out of him. At the sight of Dorian. That fucking Tevinter _bastard_. What had he done to deserve this?

Even as his mind railed against the thought of him being there, witnessing his shame and total vulnerability, his body was responding with eager approval. His legs spread almost on their own accord, presenting his utterly soaked crotch like some obscene gift. Every hair on his body felt it was standing on end.

 _Alpha_. Dorian was an alpha. There was no denying it. The moment he’d walked in, Carver had caught his scent. Maker, it had been so fucking long since he’d smelled that. And fuck, did his body love it.

His nipples had already been tender and aching all day, but they hardened almost immediately at the sight of him. His hole, already so sore and so terribly empty, flexed almost on its own accord, opening itself like a demanding mouth. His thoughts had managed to stay logical for all of two minutes, but the fever felt like it had spread to his brain. He wanted to be filled. He wanted Dorian to fill him up, make him feel something other than emptiness. He needed him inside him. He needed it. Oh, fuck. He wanted it. _He wanted it_. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

Dorian was too close to him. He’d closed the door and was looming like a dark spectre near the bed. The thoughts Carver had had about him, the attraction he’d been shunting to one side and the other, trying to maintain his fragile templar pride, while a part of him just wanted to get on his hands and knees for him, suddenly made a lot of sense.

Somehow, that didn’t make things any better.

Dorian was far, _far_ too close. “Carver, if you want me to go, say it.” His eyes were fixed on him, burning through him like a conjured inferno.

It took every ounce of Carver’s remaining, fraying strength to glare at him. He didn’t want it. He was a templar. He hated mages. Dorian was from Tevinter. The whole fortress would be laughing at him if he gave in. He screwed up his eyes.

His body didn’t care.

“No.” In any other circumstance, he would have loathed how pitiful his voice sounded. “Don’t go. Please… I can’t—” A cry was forced out of his mouth as his muscles spasmed and another hot rush of discharge leaked through his breeches and onto the bed. “Please! It hurts.”

He felt Dorian press a hand to his forehead. He leaned into it. “Hush.” Dorian’s voice was somewhere between a coo and a growl. “Hush now. I’m going to make it feel better.”

The change in Carver’s body was immediate. A pleased hum filled his mind and the tenseness in his limbs loosened. His last, whimpering protest died in his mind. He needed this.

Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his shoulders soothingly. “I need you to get out of those clothes, sweet thing. You’ve made an awful mess of yourself.”

Carver let Dorian stretch his legs out and gently unbutton his breeches. He couldn’t take his eyes off of his face. Dorian’s well-manicured handsomeness was suddenly the most compelling thing Carver had ever seen. He knew it was his omega-in-heat brain talking, but all he wanted to do was look at him forever.

Dorian tugged his breeches down his legs, leaving a trail of slick behind. Carver made a protesting, discomforted sound. The fluid that had been pooled in the crotch of his breeches spilled out between his thighs. Dorian sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“Look at the state of you,” he hissed.

He threw Carver’s breeches to one side and ran his hands over his sticky thighs. Carver rocked gently into the motion. It felt so good having an alpha’s hands on him that he thought it might become too much. The idea of passing out was almost too mortifying to bear.

Carver looked down at his lower half. His cock was straining piteously away from his body, precum dribbling from the reddened head. His fluid had completely drenched his inner thighs and made a considerable puddle underneath him. His hole was so open and wet, he almost felt like he’d already been fucked. Dorian ran his fingers appreciatively over it.

Carver made a keening sound that he’d forever deny had ever left his mouth and splayed his legs further apart. Dorian hushed him. “Look how loose you’ve gotten for me. What a good boy. You’re so ready for my cock.”

Carver moaned and didn’t care how wanton or unrestrained it sounded. “Please… Please, Dorian.” He panted as Dorian gently fingered his opening.

Dorian’s other hand petted his hair. “What do you need, beautiful? You’re such a gorgeous thing. Look at you.”

Carver thrusted his hips up. His body wanted to present. Dorian’s words just felt so… _nice_. So right. All his mind wanted to do was give up and lay itself out for Dorian. He wanted to be preened and petted and told he was a good boy, a beautiful thing. The praise was like a separate and equally potent form of pleasure.

“Dorian.” Carver’s voice was little more than a frayed whimper. “Feel so empty.” He tried to constrain the shudder that went through him. He choked. “Please... Please, fuck me.”

His body bucked up again. It was like it had a mind of its own. And that mind had one thing on it.

Dorian took a shuddery breath and visibly forced himself to move backwards. Carver made a wild grab for him, panic filling every part of him. The idea that he might leave was almost enough to make him sob. He thought he might die of the agony if Dorian didn’t put his cock in him.

Dorian made a sound like he was comforting a frightened animal. “Easy now, darling. I need to undress. I’m not going anywhere. Get onto your hands and knees for me.”

Carver didn’t want to take his eyes off him. The fear that Dorian might suddenly disappear was ridiculous and also extremely real.

“Be a good boy, Carver.” A stern edge came into Dorian’s voice.

Carver had moved to obey before his brain had even reacted. He stared down at his damp sheets and felt his body curve on its own accord until his arse was pushed up into the air. He’d wanted to present himself to Dorian since he had walked in. It felt so right. A pleasant buzz filled his mind.

“Such a good boy,” Dorian cooed.

The praise was almost as good as an orgasm in itself. He let his eyes close and bit his bottom lip. It felt right. Obeying his alpha. A shrill voice somewhere in his mind sharply reminded him that Dorian was _not_ his alpha. It might as well have been speaking in tongues.

Carver felt Dorian’s hands touch his thighs. They were smooth and soft. The touch was far too light. He pushed his behind up as far as he could manage. Trying to show Dorian that he could take more. _Needed more._

“Your body is perfect, Carver. Look at this.” He gently slapped Carver’s thighs and he felt the muscle jiggle tightly. He did the same to Carver’s bottom and Carver let out an unashamed moan.

“Precious,” Dorian mused.

Carver was about to respond when he felt strong hands parting his buttocks. He lowered his head, shoulders hunched. He took a shuddery breath. And then he felt Dorian’s mouth. Wet, warm, perfect.

“Fuck!” He writhed in agonised delight.

Dorian tongue traced his slick-sodden crack and buried itself inside of him. He hadn’t stopped leaking since Dorian had walked in, but now it was coming so fast, he thought he might pass out from the loss of fluid. Carver bit his lip hard to keep from screaming out.

Dorian’s tongue disappeared from his hole. “Let me hear it, sweet thing.” His voice was gentle, but firm.

Carver _howled_. Dorian was fucking him with his tongue and it felt like his body was made to take everything Dorian had to give him. He wanted to be a container for Dorian’s body. He wanted to be a conduit. He needed Dorian’s cock in every part of his body. He needed his mouth. He didn’t need food. He wanted to be shackled to that bed and fucked every day by Dorian until his body knew no other purpose.

Dorian’s tongue disappeared, but his hands stayed on Carver’s bottom, massaging his buttocks, keeping them wide apart. Carver knew what was coming next. His whole body sung with joy at the prospect.

“Dorian, please,” he rasped. “I want… Want to look at you.”

Needed to. He wanted to look at the alpha, wanted to know that it was him inside him, giving him what he needed.

Dorian was silent for a moment and then Carver felt himself being gently turned over. Laying on his back, he stared blearily up at Dorian’s flushed and fiercely aroused face. Carver could see his slick smeared across Dorian’s mouth. Dorian ran his fingers over Carver’s cheek and down to his mouth. There was something fond and almost tender in the gesture.

His eyes didn’t leave Carver as he pulled Carver’s legs up and over his shoulders. Carver’s mind whited out in anticipation and bliss. With a smooth movement against his already very wet and loose opening, Dorian began to push inside of him.

“Yes! Dorian!” Carver threw his head back against the pillows.

Dorian snarled and thrust inside of him. The squelch of all that fluid and their skin slapping together was just about the most obscene thing Carver had ever heard. And he loved it.

His hole was utterly exposed every time Dorian pulled out of him. It felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t threatening or shameful. On the contrary, he had never felt so safe or at ease. Having an alpha ( _his alpha_ ) inside him felt so right that he didn’t understand how he could stand to live without it.

“Carver,” Dorian groaned in a taut voice. “You… are… _perfect_.”

He didn’t know when he’d started touching himself, but Carver’s hand was on his cock, stroking in a messy, irregular rhythm.

“Dorian, please,” Carver babbled, twisting helplessly against the bed. “Alpha, please!”

He didn’t even know what he was begging for.

Dorian’s groans turned into a low growl at the word “alpha”. His pace heightened, and his hands tightened on his thighs. If it hurt, Carver couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything but the cock going in and out of him. His whole world was reduced down to his hole and Dorian’s cock.

Dorian snarled. “Tell me I’m your alpha!”

Carver writhed. “Dorian! _Oh_.” He moaned into the cold, night air. Moaned so loudly, his ears were ringing. “My alpha! You’re my alpha!” The words didn’t even make sense to him. “I need you. Please don’t leave me.” He didn’t even know what he was babbling about.

The sound from Dorian was predatory. It was almost animal. Carver’s body tensed. He looked up and met Dorian’s eyes, heated and sharp and so possessive Carver could die.

“Come for me then, _omega_.”

The words were soft, but they released a shock of sensations inside of him. Carver didn’t know if he was feeling pleasure or pain or agony or both. Or if he’d gone insane.

His hips bucked wildly, and he was coming. His seed was gushing profusely. He didn’t think it’d ever stop. Or if he wanted it to stop.

Dorian hissed his triumph above him and thrust once more inside of him. His orgasm burst inside of Carver. He spilt so much cum inside of Carver, he couldn’t work out if it was real or he had lost his sense of reality. He whimpered at the sensation, pinning himself against Dorian. He wanted to feel that forever.

“Knot me.” He tossed his head helplessly. “Dorian. Alpha. Knot me. Please. Please. Please.”

He was chanting it like it was his saving grace. He stared desperately up at Dorian, pleading with him to give him what he wanted, needed.

Dorian shook his head. “No, darling. We can’t do that.” He said in a very gentle voice.

With a soft groan, he pulled out. Carver could have cried at the emptiness. He collapsed against his pillows, all strength leaving his body. He didn’t think he could ever move again. He panted and stared up at Dorian.

Dorian’s eyes were glowing with pleasure and satisfaction. He couldn’t take them off Carver. “Good boy.” He stroked the hair out of Carver’s face. “Such a good boy.”

Carver knew faintly, obscurely that he would need to be taken again. That he was far from sated. But at that moment, he felt content. And utterly exhausted.

Dorian got up from the bed, legs trembling slightly. “I’m just going to fetch something to clean you with. Have a rest and tell me when it starts to hurt again.”

Carver nodded and yawned. He really could sleep. Despite the dull ache below that told him he would be ready to go again soon. Soon. He’d just close his eyes for a moment. And then he’d be ready.


End file.
